


Dirty Laundry

by Malcontent_Ash



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Animated), DCU (Comics)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1438048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malcontent_Ash/pseuds/Malcontent_Ash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick gets a call out of the blue from an old friend needing a favor.  Let's just say this friend and this favor aren't exactly on the right side of the law.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Laundry

The communicator beeped to life.

“Oracle,” the voice greeted, smooth and smokey like a drag off a fine cigarette. The communicator clicked with a muted chuckle.

“Oh, Dickie Bird. You haven’t changed a bit,” it snickered sharp like hard whiskey and burning like the cheap stuff. Dick fumbled the communicator up to his ear.

“Jason? Fucking Christ. Jason?” Dick cradled his head in the hand not cupping the communicator. “It’s been over a year. I thought—We thought you were dead!” He rasped into the mic with a startled whisper. Without seeing it Dick could imagine the way Jason’s head would tilt as he shrugged slightly.

“Not this time, I’m afraid. But since you’re so concerned,” Jason’s voice showed the slightest bit of hesitancy which ran like ice through Dick’s veins. “I suppose I am in a bit of a pickle. The cargo ship I was expecting an hour ago ‘s running late due to… unforeseen circumstances and I’ve got a load which absolutely must ship tonight.” Jason cleared his throat, a gentle cough which had become familiar to Dick not long after the younger man picked up smoking. Gently curved brows furrowed over baby blues as he replayed the conversation again for clues. _Load_.

“I’m sorry, what loads? Why now?” Dick’s tone clearly indicated that he was not in fact sorry, and rather was intending for the other to be.

“Ah, well. I can tell you the details when you get here. Assuming you weren’t in the middle of world saving business or something equally fruity…” The jibe was gentle, nostalgic even. Remember when we used to help each other? “The docks. Be there in fifteen.” The line cut off.

* * *

 

The Docks, April 15th at 2 a.m.

 

Nightwing’s cycle purred silently between his legs as he stopped the engine. One long leg after the other swung with preternal grace from the machine and without removing his helmet he strode toward the tendrils of smoke he could see slipping out from the roof of one of the many victims of Gotham’s most recent economic decline. The building wasn’t terribly old, but it had aged a decade in the last six months as various squatters and vandals passed through it. All but a few of the hundreds of windows which had latticed the exterior were now shattered around his feet as he pulled his grappling hook from his belt. By the time he had ascended over the concrete lip of the roof he could see the small glow of embers from several feet away. As Jason exhaled, he pulled himself up from where he’d been leaning against a large wooden crate which had Russian lettering across the sides.

Rather than approaching, Jason took another quick drag before flicking the cigarette with his forefingers and smiling. Cautiously, somewhat sheepishly he raised his hands above the height of his shoulders, facing the slender figure.

“Weapons? You’re shipping for the Russians now?” Dick moved toward the case, carefully strafing around Jason’s deferential form. From his belt he pulled a long slender flashlight in black chrome and began studying the crate.

“It’s not what you think,” his eyes lit almost manically with emotion. Lips tipped with a calculated mirth, sly and crooked, childlike and sweet. The way it looked when he’d asked Dick not to tell Bruce about scratching the Batmobile. The way he looked when he’d asked Dick to do him a favor. And another. And another. The glint in his eyes left the sweetness with a bitter taste.

Dick studied the frame checking for telltale scratches and markings when the light poured over a darkened spot. He touched it with his gloved index finger, rubbing it between his thumb and forefingers and sniffing, eyes never leaving Jason as he began to approach. Jason’s hands were on his shoulders, slithering up his neck to remove his helmet for him.

“Blood.” The light wavered further downward and the spots became larger and more frequent. There was a small pool of blood which had recently begun to creep through the wooden crack at the front of the case. Jason tossed the motorcycle helmet across the roof with a clatter while Dick replaced his flashlight in his belt. “Absolutely not. Whatever it is, I’m not helping.”

Cautiously, minding the vulnerable spot which had been left from a stray bullet which scraped against his rib several months ago, he unfurled himself toward Dick. The gesture was slow, hesitant and imploring. “Dick,” he sighed, the edge of an iceberg of emotion peeking from above the water. “Dick, please. I need you.” He begged, lips finding the collar of Dick’s uniform as he whispered.

“No,” Dick whispered back, head tilted away from Jason’s hair which was tickling his ear. His hands were balled tightly at his side but he moved no further.

The stubble of Jason’s jaw scratched against his skin as he inhaled sharply. “I don’t think you understand,” the grumble of a lion’s purr, “I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t out of options. Either they go, or I will. When the police find these guys the Russians will be on me so fast and so hard you’ll never find the pieces.” Jason’s hands slipped against the edges of Dick’s lightly armored chest plate. “I fucked up on this one. I need you, Dick. _Save me_.”


End file.
